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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955529">truth-telling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123'>Skyuni123</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Saving Hope (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drunk Sex, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, New Zealand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:28:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,864</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>joel and charlie run into each other after a disappointing night out.</p><p>conversations, and other things, ensue.</p><p>(set somewhere around s2)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joel Goran/Charlie Harris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>truth-telling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I knew Charlie Harris was a dick the first time I met him. Could see it in his eyes, in the way he speaks, in everything about him. He’s like me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A tolerable dick, but a dick regardless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Americans have this thing about swearing that I’ve never really gotten on with. Canadians too, to a point, depending on where you go. They’re so weird about it. I’ve been punched in a bar cause I called someone a dick one time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I was meaning it in a nice way. Mostly.)  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Seriously. Call someone a dick in New Zealand and you’d be bought a beer. I’m not joking. Kiwis are alarmingly casual about throwing around swears. My best mate, and flatmate, at uni - he’d always wake me up for my mid year med exams by throwing this cheap ugly cushion we got from The Warehouse - it had sequins on it, don’t ask - at my face and yelling, “Get up, cunt,” at me until I got out of bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a term of endearment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mostly.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie Harris, though? A dick, and not in the good way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s always ground on me a bit in ways that I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it’s because he was marrying Alex, someone who in my years of playing about I had never been able to get over. Maybe it’s because he was the chief of surgery. Maybe it’s because he was just always there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless, I could never shake the vague feeling of annoyance whenever I ran into him around the hospital.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, of course, he and Alex were in that car accident. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He got thrown into a coma. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the whole thing got shot to hell. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie’s awake now, and looking surprisingly springy for a guy who spent months in a coma. No idea how he did it, but it’s pissing me off. That’s the thing about the guy. He’s a damn good surgeon - even I can admit that; hot as hell - judging by the amount of propositions he gets from everyone on the reg; and completely fine in the head after being stuck in his own brain for several months.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, his muscles have gone - I get no small amount of pleasure from watching him eat shit on the parallel bars a couple of times when passing by the physio ward, but his brain is </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unbelievable. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a Tuesday morning when Charlie comes in, sun silhouetting him in my doorway like he planned it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wouldn’t put it past him, honestly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knocks, and I ignore him for a fraction of a second longer than is probably necessary. I look up. “Ah. Charles Harris. What have I done to deserve this? Come in, pull up a chair.” Is it grandiose? Yes. Will it likely piss him off? Almost definitely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t call me that, Joel.” He huffs, looking about as annoyed as I hoped he’d be. “Only distant acquaintances and spam callers call me that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Having the first name of an English lord ruins your casual and fun-loving exterior?” I say, snarking about as much as I dare. He’s not my boss anymore, but I still get that kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>vibe.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To my surprise, he doesn’t even respond to the sarcasm, other than cracking a bit of a grin. “Something like that.” He pulls up a chair, sits down opposite me. “It’s a bit much.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you’re here to give me the shovel talk, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to do, and I don’t want to hear it.” I say, and sit back in my chair a little. “Or ask for your job back, cause that one’s an automatic no.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I was going to ask about that,” Charlie says, completely ignoring all the stuff about Alex, and leans back in his chair as well. “Then I saw the stack of all that paperwork and remembered why I let you keep it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>let </span>
  </em>
  <span>me-” I start, but I note his look. He’s deliberately winding me up. I huff. “You’re a prick, Harris.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Takes one to know one.” He says, but doesn’t snark back in the way I’d expect. He’s almost considering. “Seriously. I’m here for a reason.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Which is?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks off to his left for a second, in a way that doesn’t quite make sense. There’s not anything on the wall in the way he’s glancing, nothing at all to look at.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If there’s one thing about Charlie Harris, he’s good at eye contact. Distraction isn’t his thing. “Charlie?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He blinks. “Sorry. Just-” He blows out a breath. “Ugh. Some of these people… Anyway. Say that I knew something about your current patient that could save their life?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes…” I say. This is weird. Very weird. James Johnson is a writer in a coma. He’s been in a coma for a while and his family just transferred him to Hope Zion as a final ray of hope. We don’t know why. His family are planning on pulling the plug on Thursday because his condition keeps declining. “I would want you to tell me about it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cool. Great. Figured you’d say. That. However…” He pauses again, looks at the same place on the wall, eyes wandering. What on </span>
  <em>
    <span>earth… </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Say I couldn’t possibly know that thing unless I’d either committed a series of felonies or knew your patient like I was actually inside their head. What about then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That one makes me pause, just for a moment. Slowly, I say, “...I would want you to tell me what you could do to save my patient. Anything else I won’t ask about.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Great.” He says, then sits forward in his chair. “James spent a…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing is, he’s right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What he tells me saves my patient.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What he tells me he can’t possibly have known without prying significantly into my patient’s personal life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t ask him about it, but it nags at me. Something’s off about Charlie Harris.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I just need to figure out what. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m stumbling home from the pub at 2am on Saturday, pissed - both literally and metaphorically.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Had struck out at the bar - not my style - and nearly gotten into a fight. Figured I should quit while I was ahead, if being ahead means I’m about four drinks down and stumbling back to my apartment. Not as drunk as I could be, and honestly, I wish I was more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I run - quite literally - into someone as I’m turning the final corner towards my apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look up, slightly, because I definitely wasn’t standing at my tallest while trying to focus on the ground, and realise -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie Harris.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking mildly tipsy. This is new. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Joel?” He says, squinting vaguely through the dark at me, blue eyes still annoyingly bright in the gloom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” I reply. “In the flesh.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ugh.” And hey, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean to vocalise it, but still, it’s rude. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy to see you too, sunshine.” We’re still standing under this great big oak tree, planted into the side of the sidewalk. It’s a very secluded and well-hidden place to commit a murder - something it seems, by the look on Charlie’s face, that he might be considering. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of answering that question, his gaze just drops, a little, and he says, “I broke up with Alex today.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Explains the look on his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Doesn’t explain why he hasn’t just punched me. That’s what I’d do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m batting 3000 it seems. I’m not sure what possesses me to say it, but I say, “You wanna drink? I live just down the road. Got a bottle of whiskey that isn’t too terrible.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It seems to take him a moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Okay.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s weird having him in my house. A little invasive, a little strange.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>God, I’m definitely not drunk enough for this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He slumps down on my couch, still looking pissed off, and I go to grab the whiskey. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I get back he’s toed his shoes off, and is absent-mindedly staring off into the middle distance, looking thoughtful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” One thing about me - I might be a dick too, but I’ve got great observational skills. Not much gets past me. Charlie’s been… distracted. More than he used to be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinks. “Oh. Have I? Probably. Surprised you care.”</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I care about all of my staff.” That’s not even remotely true, and the note in my voice proves it. There are some real assholes in the hospital, but I’ll lobby for them, no matter what, and that’s what matters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snorts, a twisted grin spreading across his face. “No you don’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shrug. What he thinks doesn’t matter to me anyway. “Whatever.” I slump down on the couch next to him, toss a glass in his direction. “Whiskey. Hooray. If you’re going to punch me for ‘stealing your girl’, can you get on with it? I’d like to ice it as soon as I can.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to punch you.” He replies, after a long moment of pouring whiskey into our two glasses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?” I reply, and take a handful of even-keeled sips. “Sure looks like you want to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “I know you kissed Alex when I was in the coma.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Uh. What. How? “Uh-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughs at my baffled look. “Bet you’re wondering how I know that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did Alex tell you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nope.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then… how? “I mean, I know you’re regressively anal about procedure sometimes, Charlie, but watching back all you missed from security cam footage is a bit much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie snorts. “Wasn’t that either.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then how.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He picks up his glass, looks at it for a second, and then downs the entire thing in one go. I watch his throat as he swallows, see the muscles tense and then relax.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s a good-looking man, he probably notices me staring. I can hardly care, though. I’m just on the edge of properly drunk now, the warmth in my house doing me no favours, and the heat in my chest is almost a little dizzying. “Charlie.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You ever thought about out of body experiences?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t even think he wants an answer. “Yeah. Went through a holistic phase in uni.” Went through a lot at uni, really. “They’re unsubstantiated. Pseudoscience. You think it happened, you get enough from context clues that your brain fills in the gaps. Like deja vu.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you’d think.” He swallows. “If you asked me, I could tell you exactly what happened across the months I was in that coma. Every big moment. The coronavirus cases. The hockey guy. The man with the horns.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Karn.” I say, faintly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Sandhya, the DNR, you and Dana having your… thing. Everything.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How.” I say, faintly, because this shouldn’t be possible. It sounds fake, it sounds impossible, it sounds like fiction - all at once. But I’d not told anyone about Dana. I breathe, “No way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes way. You’re the only one who’s believed me so far.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not even sure if I believe him, but then I think back to earlier in the week, to the patient whose circumstances he couldn’t disclose and I - “Charlie. You’re not telling me that- the coma, you’re not still seeing things, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you believe me if I said yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I blow out a breath again, my heart pounding loudly and annoyingly in my chest. I feel a little faint. Even the booze isn’t helping this. “Please tell me there’s not some kind of ghost in my fucking house right now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks faintly amused. “Do you want me to answer that honestly?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please.” I grab my glass again, and this time, I down it. What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“His name’s Gerald.” Charlie says, somehow almost charming, staring off into the middle distance again. “He’s a very exhuberant gay man in his late sixties who would love it if you could crack open the wall panel behind your bed in your bedroom and retrieve the letters from his long lost love so he can pass on. He’s tired - and these are his words, not mine - of your “conquests”, who he would describe as “mediocre” and also “very”.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doctor Lin isn’t…” I say, before I stop myself. Ouch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks faintly amused at that too. “Did you fuck everyone in the hospital while I was in a coma?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, I’m drunk enough to destroy one of your walls to get this guy to leave.” Charlie says, almost like a challenge, “Are you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” But I drain my glass of whiskey and lead him towards the bedroom anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gestures, faintly, towards one of the panels behind my bed, and sits on the office chair I have by my computer. “Gerard says thereabouts.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t believe I’m humoring him. Why am I doing this?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something to do with the poisonous mix of alcohol and strangeness. I kick my shoes off, clamber onto my bed and knock on the wall. There’s a few spots of nothing but solid wall, but then - one gap is hollow. No way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I swear to God, Charlie, if you’re making this shit up.” I warn, already feeling the slur in my voice. I am so drunk. This is a very bad idea. “I’ll… take you to small claims.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And tell them </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Charlie laughs at my back as I go and get the small fire axe I have. I bring the bottle of whiskey back as well and take a swig from it for luck. “That you believed a crazy man pretending to be a psychic that there’s mysterious letters hiding in your wall? You’d get laughed out of court.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck up.” I reply, though he’s right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alcohol makes my balance shit but my grip over-confident, and I square up, very unsafely, against the wall, and take a swing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The axe bites into the wall, makes a tiny slit, and there’s definitely something in there. That’s the thing, It looks like he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>right. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn back to him and he’s doing nothing but watching, sitting back in my office chair, arms folded, looking unimpressed. He leans over, takes the bottle of whiskey from the floor and tries some as I watch. It burns, clearly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to do this for him, but I do it anyway. I swing at the wall again, thankful I don’t have neighbours on that side. I do it a couple more times, work up a sweat, and then drop the axe to the floor, reaching into the gap with one hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I expect spiders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What I get is something else entirely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tightly wrapped plastic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I extract my hand carefully from the wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Letters, tied tightly with string, are all wrapped tightly inside a series of plastic bags.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What the fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie was right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn back to Charlie, whose gaze jumps immediately to my face when I see him looking. I toss him the letters and he catches them, dropping the bottle of whiskey to the ground. “You were right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was.” He murmurs, but he’s not even looking at the letters. He’s still looking at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I mop sweat off my face with the heel of my hand - the wall had been hard, okay, and I’m not at my best - and undo the top couple of buttons on my shirt. I lean down, snag the whiskey bottle, take a gulp or too - it burns - then, I collapse back onto the bed. “Go on, read ‘em. Get your gentleman caller to leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gentleman caller.” He snorts, though it’s still a bit distracted. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A psychic.” I muse, staring up at my ceiling. Things are a little bit hazy, but like, in a good way, the most recent hit of whiskey finally getting me somewhere warm and a little interesting. “You could go into business.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Most people are really annoying.” He says, undoing the packet of letters. “I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“See anything you like?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t answer for a moment, and I look over at him. He drops his gaze back to the letters as soon as I do. “Yeah. I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Now, that’s interesting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing is, about me - I’m not exactly discerning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I uphold the worst stereotypes of bisexuality to the absolute max. I’m the kind of guy that conservatives bring out to scare their friends at dinner parties. I know when someone is looking at me, and I know when a gaze is platonic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Charlie’s definitely not being platonic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wonder if he knows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flop back on the bed as he starts reading out the letters. They’re sweet, really, if I was into that sort of thing. Heartfelt, romantic - they’re honestly really beautiful. A love story told over ten years of two men being kept apart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s it.” Charlie says, quietly, a wet note on the edge of his voice. “You can go, Gerald.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks over at a spot on the end of my bed, almost where my feet are, and furrows his brow. I resist the urge to move my feet away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not- come on, Gerald.” Charlie says, still staring intently. “He’s not-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not what?” I say, because I’ve finally caught on that the conversation’s about me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gerald’s making some implications.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Implications?” I snort and lie my head back against the pillows. The booze has got me a bit dizzy. Beer and whiskey. Terrible combo. Then, vigorous exercise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m going to be a mess in the morning. So, right now, fuck it. “I have literally hooked up with multiple men in this bed, Charlie. Whatever Gerald’s implying isn’t conjecture, it’s fact.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somehow he seems more shocked by that than I’ve been about anything I’ve been told today about his psychic abilities. It’s almost funny. “Gerald.” I slur, hoping the ghost can hear me and I’m not just shouting to my ceiling. “Mate. I am rock solid in my bisexuality and I found your letters for you. Please fuck off.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing for a moment, just Charlie staring worriedly at the same spot at the end of my bed, but then -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A bright white light splits my head in two, shining blindingly from the end of the bed. There’s an odd whoosh, a whispered, “thank you,” and I feel cold fingers brush through my hair as it goes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What the fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s almost a chill down my spine as I sit up, finally comprehending the weirdness of the evening. “Oh God, I’ve done a lot of things in this house.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Most of the dead people I see are pretty polite.” Charlie says, distractedly, and leans down and swipes the whiskey bottle from the floor. “He probably wasn’t watching.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re kidding, right? He definitely was.” The thought isn’t terrible, but ethically murky. I can’t believe I’m thinking about ethics at a time like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhmmm.” Charlie uncaps the whiskey bottle and drinks more than he probably should, all in one go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to be a fucking wreck tomorrow, mate.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No-one has ever dealt with this as fast as you have.” Charlie says, a slight edge of wonder to his voice. “I told Alex - </span>
  <em>
    <span>twice - </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she just thought I was losing my mind.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Empirical truth.” I shrug, deep and comfortable in my haze of alcohol and comfortable sheets. “You gave me proof.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told her her brother was talking to her after he died.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sit up. “He’s not here is he?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. That’d be weird.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie snorts, and goes back to the whiskey. “You’re telling me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You going to drink that entire bottle dry, mate?” Look, I don’t normally care, but I do care if it’s my carpet someone’s vomiting on. “Pretty sure that was a gift.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Haven’t decided yet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God, you are such a dick.” I say, and turn to face him, dropping my legs off the side of the bed. “Despite the whole - probably helping dead people to the afterlife - thing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So are you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but I own it. Pass.” He passes me the whiskey, and I take another swallow. Oh, he’s definitely looking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Do I want to indulge this? I don’t know. He’s hot, well-built, probably would be a good lay, but the </span>
  <em>
    <span>life admin </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it all. It’d be around the hospital in days. Fuck it. I make a decision. It’s not worth it. “Come on.” I stand up, the floor only somewhat swirling around me. “You’ve got rid of my ghost. You need to go home now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re probably right.”</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m very right.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stands, and I lead him towards my front door. He follows, but I stop, turning around in the lounge, suddenly remembering his shoes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I just about manage to stop him running right into me by grabbing him around the waist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, the absolute fucking cliche of it all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh hey.” He says, far too close to my face, his bright blue eyes boring into mine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He absolutely reeks of booze, but then again, so do I.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What a fucking moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi.” I say, and then I kiss him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s almost angry about it, which I get, but so am I, which I kinda don’t. What’s worse is that he’s annoyingly good, too. Fuck’s sake. Is there anything this man isn’t good at?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First rodeo?” I say - though it’s more of a slur - and yank his shirt up, pushing him back towards the couch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you know,” He replies, breathless, which is not a fucking answer, and helps me drag his own shirt off, then mine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The couch creaks alarmingly as we both land on it, but I hardly care as he pulls me on top of him, legs akimbo, almost awkwardly, as we lie chest to chest. He’s warm, almost a furnace, and hard in the places that matter. I move back to kiss him, suck kisses into his chin and neck as we rock together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God.” He gasps, voice rough and passionate as I move above him. “Something to the rumors.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mmmm.” I sigh, lathing bites across his skin. “Something.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, I stick my hand down his pants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things happen very quickly after that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wake up with a blinding headache, an incredible desire to throw up, and many, many regrets.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Charlie groans as I elbow him in the stomach trying to run to the bathroom to deal with the situation going on in my churning gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beer and whiskey.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Never again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you died?” Charlie groans, voice raspy and raw, after I don’t emerge for quite a while.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nope.” I’m just lying on the bathroom floor, head on the cool tiles, wishing for death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m also wishing for a blue Powerade, but a lot of Canadian shops don’t sell them, because the world is unjust and cruel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s only after a few long minutes that I realise how naked I am.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Goddamn. The ghost, the hole in my wall, the sex with my ex’s ex-fiance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m fucked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I groan, and lay my head back on the tiles. “Hey Charlie, fuck you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you too, Joel. Where the hell are your painkillers?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Left of the kitchen sink.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He swears, obviously running into something, and I snort, then immediately regret it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing is, though, I don’t regret all of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can remember that much. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hit me up on the <a href="http://eph-em-era.tumblr.com"> tumblr </a> I take requests!</p><p>is joel supposed to be a kiwi? no idea. but he is.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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